Rainwater Whiskey
by Socrates7727
Summary: 1920s Speakeasy AU! Drarry, internalized homophobia, drinking (during prohibition, but as adults), but still wizards! Cutesy fluff HPDM. Written for the International Wizarding School Championship!


AN I don't own HP or any of the characters! Drarry one-shot for the International Wizarding School Championship! Guaranteed happy ending, I promise!

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Story Title: Rainwater Whiskey

School: Mahoutokoro

Theme: Modern Era 1880-1945

Main Prompt: [Weather] Thunderstorm

Other Prompts: [Event] Statute of Secrecy, [Color] Burgundy

Year: 4

Word Count: 2697

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It was one of those days. Draco scowled at everyone and kicked at the bits of newspaper that dared to fly into his path because the whole world was against him, or at least the people in it were. The weather was cooperating, though, and the rain pounded into his shirt like bullets hunting for his blood. Thank God it was stormy. If Draco had seen even a sliver of sunshine in the mood he was in, he would have smashed something, but the clouds, and the rain, and the wind fit his mood so he accepted them.

He needed the torrential downpour like he needed air to breathe; it felt strangely calming, despite the way his stomach churned. This was the worst part. Eyes rested on his shoulders, though he was alone, and he heard the click of cameras that he knew weren't there. Oh, how the reporters would brawl over a picture like that… Draco Malfoy, drenched and disheveled, slipping through the door of a known underground club-and a Muggle club, at that.

The Statute of Secrecy had just been revised and reimplemented over in Europe, prompting every other known magical governing system to hop on the bandwagon. Stricter rules were for the best, they said. Still, at twenty three, it was hard to relearn old habits. Even when he knew that they were watching, hunting for unsanctioned magic users and violators of the new laws, he still had to repress the urge to reach for his wand when he stepped inside. Just a simple drying charm would have been-

All at once, a very familiar rush of warmth spread over his skin. He raised a hand to the cuff of his sleeve and thumbed the material. Sure enough, it was dry. Who in their right mind…? But then Draco caught sight of the man at the bar who was watching him, a small smile playing at his lips. For a second, Draco thought he might have imagined the look. They were strangers, and the man was a Muggle, but then he saw the stirrer in the man's drink moving in slow, lazy circles without being touched. No wand, no words… This man was doing magic-effortlessly-in a room full of Muggles without a care in the world.

Draco liked this bar in particular because it was small and discreet. You had to know someone to get in and there was a much smaller chance that he would be recognized or reported. It was cozy-the kind of small that meant the music came from a scratchy record player and the alcohol was locked in the basement, in case of raids. It always smelled like a musty kind of clean but, given that it was underground, Draco wasn't surprised.

He couldn't help himself. Draco knew exactly what he was doing, and he had run through the consequences of something like this a hundreds times, but that didn't stop his body as it moved across the room. Wordlessly, he took a seat one stool away from the man. He wasn't stupid, and he knew that the dim mood lighting of the oil lamps mixed with the cigarette smoke hanging in the air would obscure the man's flaws. Up close, he could see more detail in that face, though, and there were no flaws. There were deep, mossy green eyes and gorgeous burgundy lips. Wait, no. Beneath the edge of the bar, Draco gripped his wrist and pinched hard, just beneath the cuff.

"What brings you in?" Jesus, his voice was like dark chocolate dripping into the air. Draco pinched his wrist again, and ordered straight whiskey before turning to the wizard.

"The storm. You?" As if on cue, a huge crash of thunder boomed through the bar, and Draco jumped. It was enough to completely erase the soft jazz pouring out of the record player at the front of the room, which he cursed because it ruined a perfectly good song. Beside him, the man merely chuckled.

"Looking for someone who's good with their lips."

At that, Draco choked. He almost spit out his whiskey, but then those deep, burgundy bits of flesh were twisting into a smile and he wanted to laugh. Surely, this was a trap. Some kind of honeypot-either for homosexuals, or for Statute violators-and they were targeting the son of the great Lucius Malfoy.

"Tough luck, I don't see any flappers around here." The bartender grunted at them, his stubble hiding his expression or reaction, but Draco forced himself to stay still.

He knew that the previous bartender had been fired for being a pansy and he could guess that this fatter, older, balding version of the former was an attempt to prevent a repeat of that situation. This new bartender always seemed angry, though, for some reason, like his face was permanently twisted in discontent. Thankfully, he moved away from them, down towards another man who was nursing a gin and tonic, but Draco's anxiety didn't lessen. What was this man playing at? And why?

"Mmm, seems you're right. Even better." No, this was definitely too good to be true and every nerve that Draco had was on fire with warning. He didn't move away or leave, though. Something about the man sitting just one stool away from him was irresistible and Draco loved it. No! Another pinch, harder this time.

Checking that the bartender was still distracted, Draco hopped one stool over and lowered his voice.

"I'm sure you didn't mean that, but I'd be careful what you say if I were you. Don't want someone getting the wrong idea." Again, the man flashed him a beautiful smile. With one hand raised, the man wordlessly summoned a bottle from behind the bar and refilled his glass before replacing it, all before the bartender could see.

"What did you say your name was?" Another smile, but this time the man took a sip before he answered. The alcohol made his voice low and gritty, like a sugar balm.

"I didn't. And don't worry, I didn't ask what yours was either. I tend to remember a man's name better if I learn it while in bed with them, anyways." How, in the name of God, was this man being so _blatant_?! It had to be a trap-it _had_ to.

"That's illegal." Draco gestured to the stir stick, which was still moving in graceful little circles despite the glass being empty, but all he got was another smile.

He'd tried to change the subject, he really had. The man was not having it, though, and Draco sat mesmerized as he watched pure white teeth dart out and catch one of those burgundy lips. It rolled between the teeth, and then released. Draco pinched himself again under the edge of the bar but his eyes didn't look away-_couldn't_ look away.

"So is this," the man gestured to his drink, and took a sip to emphasize the alcohol, "And this," Draco _felt_ the charm that was performed that time, like static in the air, and he shivered, "And this." Jesus there was a hand on his knee. It was warm and he felt the exact handprint of its shape through his trousers like a burn. He didn't pull away, though.

"You know, I have a very fine bottle of firewhiskey in my apartment." Emerald eyes, burgundy lips, that hand on his leg… "You're welcome to join me." There it was. The hook, laden with bait, just waiting for him to reach out and touch it.

Draco knew, better than most, how horrible of an idea this was and he knew exactly what his father would do if he ever found out. It was too good to be true, right? This man was some kind of rat or an informant, and the second Draco agreed he would be hauled off in the back of the closest paddywagon. He knew that-truly-but those eyes… and those lips… Would he ever have a chance like this again?

"Okay, but for the firewhiskey only. I'm not a pansy."

Beside him, he was graced with a small chuckle and the tink of an empty glass being returned. They were actually doing this. God, what had he gotten himself into? If the press found out, if his father found out, then Draco would-

"Of course you aren't, beautiful."

He was in _so_ over his head. The way those words, that tone, settled in his gut like warm butterbeer was positively unfair and it stripped away his willpower like a blade. One, two, three seconds and they were heading for the door. Just two friends, he told himself, just two friends going to enjoy a drink.

The walk to wherever they were going would be horrible, Draco knew that, because the storm was raging almost as violently as his own nerves. The man led them out into the torrid rain, and Draco braced for the icy, cold bullets but... It never came. Shocked, he glanced up to see if the man had summoned an umbrella somehow, but no. The rain just... wasn't touching their skin.

As they walked, the wind began to pick up and Draco was sure that whatever charm he had used wouldn't hold, but it did. How was this wizard so _strong_? They moved into an alley, and Draco stopped to consider the fact that he could quite possibly be murdered because of this poor decision, but he found himself not caring. This time, the thunder actually managed to scare him closer to the man, as if he was some kind of shelter. Rather than chuckle, though, like before, the man merely placed his hand on the small of Draco's back and continued to steer them through the alleyway.

It was then, finally, that the fear hit. The man was so _blatant _about his use of magic that Draco couldn't help but be scared. He had to wonder what gave him the confidence to do that-if he was insane, or an escaped convict-and he had to wonder how blatant the man might be about… other things. Just as he began to hyperventilate, though, a hand gripped his arm and they were Apparating.

"Make yourself at home."

It was an apartment, Draco realized, and not a police station. In the full light now, he could see that the man's eyes were a lighter shade of emerald than he'd thought and his lips were more pink than burgundy. That didn't matter, though, because the apartment made up for it tenfold. Everything was a shade of red, somehow. From the throw pillows on the couch to the shade on the lamp itself, everything was a deep, bloody burgundy. The shades of red were taunting him. They were all so deep, and so bright, and so… _alive_. He envied them.

"Please, sit."

Draco obeyed, but sinking down into the deep, scarlet couch cushions was immediately what he imagined the man's lips would feel like. Smooth. Comfortable. The kind of easy, accepting embrace that Draco could only project onto pieces of furniture because he had absolutely no personal experience with it.

Outside, everything was chaos. Lightning flashed in huge, overwhelming bursts of light that could have easily blinded them if they had looked too long. Thankfully, each flash only lasted a fraction of a second. With the man there, Draco suddenly couldn't imagine tearing himself away from something so intense, something so beautifully chaotic, of his own volition. He couldn't-not now. Not when it was the only thing acting as a substitute for the man himself, which Draco could not want. He pinched his wrist again, hard enough to draw blood, but it didn't help.

"Stop doing that."

It was a command, but the way Draco jolted was almost comical. For a moment, he'd forgotten that he wasn't alone and he forgotten what kind of situation he was now in. Before he could start cursing, though, a hand touched his. Slowly, gently, with those gorgeous eyes watching him for any hint of discontent, the man took his wrist and examined the dark, angry red marks that Draco had pinched into his skin.

"Why?"

Draco swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the lump in his throat, but another clap of thunder made him choke halfway through. What was he supposed to say? That that was how his father had taught him to control his unnatural impulses? Could he even say that to a stranger without emptying his stomach all over the floor? All over the burgundy rug…

"Tell me your name."

Still holding his wrist, the man did not smile. His eyes were soft, now, and sadder than Draco had ever dreamed this man capable of being. Neither of them were laughing now.

"Harry," The sugar balm voice caught, but didn't stop. "My name is Harry Potter."

Draco had to smile. The name fit him so well, and it felt so much warmer than something as sharp as 'Draco'.

"My name is Draco." He didn't say the last name-he didn't have to-but Harry smiled at him nevertheless in thanks.

It was a two-way street, now. Those emerald eyes settled on him again and watched, carefully, as Harry lifted Draco's wrist to his lips. Slowly, he kissed over the marks and wiped away the bit of blood that was left, like some kind of phoenix that could heal with its saliva. To his utter shock, however, his wrist was completely healed when Harry pulled away.

"Nonverbal healing spell," Harry offered, grinning at him like he was impressing a date. "They're kind of my specialty." Draco shuddered, but Harry didn't let go of his wrist or move away. 'Good,' he couldn't help thinking.

"Is your mouth magic then, or something?"

Harry laughed, tugging off his jacket, but was back to holding Draco's wrist almost immediately. Like a child, Draco keened into the contact.

"No, I didn't have to touch you," Another gorgeous smile, from those lips that could never decide what color they wanted to be. "But I wanted to." They were moving closer together now, slowly but with enough urgency that Draco noticed it-though he wasn't complaining. Harry was like the human equivalent of hot coffee: comforting, yet exhilarating.

"Does it work on souls too?" Harry's smile faltered, but then those lips were on his wrist again and moving up his arm.

"It won't make you normal," The kisses were at his shoulder, now, through his shirt and working towards his neck. "But it can make you enjoy being abnormal."

Harry was hovering, just an inch from his face, and those lips really were burgundy now because they were beginning to flush. His eyes were soft, lit only by the occasional flash of lightning, but hungry. He was giving Draco the choice. Draco stopped, considering backing out if only for a split second, but then he was moving and their lips were crashing together in the most awkward, wonderful experience of his life. Harry tasted like rainwater and alcohol.

"I think I could like being abnormal," Harry grinned at him, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear, but Draco wasn't done. "If you were abnormal with me."

He had no idea where that had come from or what kind of deity had given him the courage to say that, but it was so worth it. The way Harry's face split into a genuine, heartwarming smile was beautiful. His hair was so soft, even though it was a complete mess, and...

"Wait, Potter? Like the hair tonic Potter?"

Beneath him, the man flushed and tickled at his sides but Draco just laughed. It was easy, like this.

"Hair _potions_. For women, usually. Merlin, how did you ever manage to pass as normal?"

They laughed, bodies shaking until they were as bad as the weather outside, but Draco didn't care. It felt so good to laugh, especially after the day he had. Finally, he liked the storm for a different reason-not because it reflected his mood or his inner chaos, but because it was what had landed him here, on the couch with Harry. After all, it was much easier to appreciate the storm when there wasn't one inside him anymore.

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Thanks so much for reading! Reviews mean the world to me!


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